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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183712">Wheatfields</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniz/pseuds/insomniz'>insomniz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Clone High</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings Realization, First Chapter is Sad, Gandhi has ADHD, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn, Spoilers in the tags! Be careful, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The only trope that i seem to love, but the rest is all about that, feat. Theo the cat!!, honestly i had an idea and just went along with it, man why did i write that</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:20:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,089</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183712</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniz/pseuds/insomniz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After what seemed to be an eternity, he turned to face Gandhi, and said:<br/>“Fuck you.”<br/>Gandhi was actually taken aback by this. Sure, he didn’t expect Van Gogh to throw him roses, but this was a bit exaggerated.<br/>“Maybe the thing you wanted to say was rather: ‘Thank you, dear Gandhi, for saving my life. I definitely owe you one’.”</p><p>or, Gandhi goes to apologize to Van Gogh after that shameful night and comes at the right moment. Wheatfields were said to represent Van Gogh's extreme loneliness and sadness. La tristesse durera toujours.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gandhi &amp; Joan of Arc, Gandhi &amp; Vincent Van Gogh, Gandhi/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Jaune paille</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You should go talk to him.”</p><p>Whether it was his conscience talking to him, or Joan, Gandhi wasn’t sure. Both were his voice of reason, so it didn’t really matter.</p><p>“I just talked to him, he whined, still a bit drunk.”</p><p>“Yeah, and humiliated him when he was at his lowest. Go and apologize.”</p><p>He grumbled something incoherent, but let Joan push him in the direction of the student dorms. There was a little piece of him, pushed down by alcohol, that cared for Vincent and was appalled by what he had just done.<em> I’m just gonna check on him and go back to the party, </em>a hazy thought came to him.</p><p>Most rooms had probably been deserted as students had joined the party, except for Van Gogh, of course. He never came to parties, despite Gandhi’s pleas. He said it made him ‘anxious’ and ‘not fun to be around’. Gandhi could understand that. Before having discovered that he was a party beast, he had himself often felt anxious at the idea of not being able to socialize, to make friends, to be alone. He still felt that way, but it was drowned down by alcohol.</p><p><em>“Just take a shot or two if you’re feeling nervous” </em>Gandhi had once told him.<em> “Everything’s easier when you’re just... drunk.”</em></p><p>He had realized almost immediately that this made him sound like a mess of an alcoholic - which he probably was, all things considered - giving awful advice. And he had yet to understand the strange look Van Gogh had given him, the stone-cold look of someone who’s trying really hard not to kill you on sight.</p><p>Then, Gandhi had remembered how the real Van Gogh had a problem with absinthe. He had a tendancy to fuck things up when it came to when he talked to Vincent.</p><p>Except it wasn’t particularly easy to have a conversation with the guy. Mute, somber, aggressive even, he looked like he dreaded every single word Gandhi uttered. And yet, Gandhi found himself to be drawn to him, in class, watching over his shoulder when he painted, just to be ushered away by Joan because she feared that Van Gogh would have a breakdown if he realized he was being watched.</p><p>In fact, Gandhi was amazed by Van Gogh. He saw a lot of clones try to live up to their clone parents, but none tried as hard as Vincent. He had actually severed his own ear, in what Gandhi thought to be a fit of obsession. That shit simply amazed him, but also terrified him.</p><p>If Van Gogh had always wanted to be as close as possible to his clone father, Gandhi felt as if he couldn’t have been further away from his, even if he tried.</p><p>My, what a pressure. No wonder guys who wanted to be what was expected of them ended up calling the teen crisis hotline, just as Van Gogh had. Meanwhile, Gandhi’s personal philosophy had always consisted in living his life as his own person and sure, violence was uncool, but damn him if he wasn’t gonna make the most of his teenage years. Maybe he did make the most of them to just ignore some truths, drown in alcohol and drugs and sweet, sweet oblivion not to have to confront the fact he could never live up to the expections that were set up for him, too.</p><p>Fuck, that was actually kinda depressing.</p><p>He wandered along the corridor, thinking back on what he had done to Van Gogh. He usually didn’t think twice about his actions, but this was different, he had really hurt someone this time, Van Gogh especially. He had sobered up since, and was left with a bitter taste in his mouth.</p><p>Gandhi stopped.</p><p>Van Gogh’s room.</p><p>Gandhi was surprised that he actually remembered this piece of information, which should have been buried deep in his memory, never to be seen again. But for some reason, his brain had decided that it was important enough to appear to him as a revelation on a Friday night.</p><p>Gandhi huffed a breath, thought <em>Man, I’m really doing this, huh?</em> and knocked gently on the door. There was light piercing underneath it, on the threshold ; Van Gogh wasn’t asleep yet.</p><p>“Van Gogh? It’s me, Gandhi, he whispered, loud enough for Van Gogh and Van Gogh only to hear.”</p><p>But there was no answer. A sense of dread filled him, but he didn’t know exactly how or why.</p><p>“Cm’on man, I know you heard that. Open up, Vincent, please, I- I wanna talk to you.”</p><p>Was he so miserable that he needed to call him by his first name? Maybe. He felt angry, too, that Van Gogh wouldn’t even give him a single chance to apologize.</p><p>His next knock was stronger than the others, and Gandhi realized the door hadn’t been locked; it had actually opened on its own with his knock.</p><p>The light Gandhi had seen came from the lamp at Van Gogh’s desk, but the rest of the room slept in shadows thrown about by the light. At first, Gandhi thought there was no one there, but then his eyes fell on the lump underneath the covers on the bed. Van Gogh was sleeping after all.. With the light on?</p><p>This detail in particular actually struck a chord of fear in him, and Gandhi sprung in action, running to the bed and calling Van Gogh’s name. In his panic his feet hit something. Paint tubes, bottles of turpentine and brushes. Gandhi didn’t think anything of it, but when he grabbed the covers, he felt his heart stop in his chest.</p><p>Van Gogh seemed to sleep alright, but something was very off. He looked really pale somehow, even more than usual, and his freckles were a stark reminder on his cheeks, even more visible than usual. There was yellow paint on his lips. In a second Gandhi connected the dots: Van Gogh had actually drunk paint and maybe turpentine too.</p><p>Gandhi gripped him by the shoulders, trying to shake him awake, pleading for him to open his eyes.</p><p>“What- What have you done?! Wake up! Vincent, wake up!”</p><p>The redhead wasn’t waking up. In fact, even if he was still warm, he seemed not to be doing so well, groaning softly, his brow creased in pain. <em>Make him puke</em>, a voice rang in Gandhi’s head in a bright moment of intelligence. <em>Make him puke before it actually goes to his organs.</em></p><p>He didn’t even take the time to get him to the bathroom, Gandhi immediately turned him in his arms and stuck two fingers in his throat, as deep as he could.</p><p>There was no immediate reaction from Van Gogh, and Gandhi had to prod inside his throat before he felt him recoiling, and soon enough there was paint on the bed. He was vomiting and coughing and still he looked pale and asleep, as if his body was doing it on its own, without Van Gogh actually wanting to.</p><p>He puked yellow paint for quite a long time, Gandhi’s hand caressing his back the whole time, and then it ended in a rough fit of coughing. After what seemed to be an eternity, he turned to face Gandhi. Silence. He was thinking, that much was true, but not saying anything. The weight of silence grew on Gandhi as time passed. He hated silence. It needed to be filled up at all costs, but then again, he knew that Van Gogh needed time. He wasn't gonna take that away from him too.
Before that, Van Gogh had stared at the floor for minutes that felt more like hours. Stared at the paint. But now, his eyes were fixed on Gandhi's. There were tears streaming down his face, and yellow too, on his mouth. He looked so vulnerable, and Gandhi supposed that it was normal, because he had possibly come at the brink of death and Gandhi had clutched him out of the Reaper's claws.
If looks could kill, Van Gogh's could have buried Gandhi straight in his own tomb. He finally opened his mouth and said:</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I said: fuck you, Gandhi."</p><p>Gandhi was actually taken aback by this. Sure, he didn’t expect Van Gogh to throw him roses, but this was a bit exaggerated.</p><p>“Maybe the thing you wanted to say was rather: ‘Thank you, dear Gandhi, for saving my life. I definitely owe you one’.”</p><p>“You can’t even let me-” Van Gogh cried out, more than exasperated, his sentence cut short by more coughing. “First you ruin my life, then you ruin my death? What do you want, Gandhi? A trophy?”</p><p>“For your information, I was about to apologize to you, that’s what I came here to do, right before I found you poisoning yourself!”</p><p>He had almost yelled that last part, but the way Van Gogh stared at him with big teary eyes made him regret it.</p><p>“Just leave me alone, for once, Van Gogh grumbled weakly.”</p><p>“After what I just witnessed? Hell no, dude. You need company right now. If not me, then someone else." Gandhi's mind immediately went to Joan. She was one of the few people that Van Gogh seemed to tolerate, and he had actually seen them talking after class. Besides, Van Gogh probably didn't want to see him right now. He needed someone whou could be soft with him, and patient, and understanding.</p><p>Gandhi wasn't a single one of those things.</p><p>"Also, I think you should go to the hospital, even if you puked most of it.”</p><p>To that, Van Gogh finally agreed, after a bit of convincing. Joan even accepted to accompany him there. She cast a last glance at Gandhi before getting into the ambulance, one that said, <em>you did good</em>, and nothing more. That was enough. Gandhi didn’t feel like going back to the party. He didn’t feel like anything, in fact. He just wanted to crash somewhere and just... cry himself to sleep, for some reason. He’d been left empty after seeing Van Gogh seemingly dying, alone in his room.</p><p>He had actually wanted to take his own life because of him, partly, and Gandhi didn’t think that he could ever sleep well after that. He just waved Joan goodbye and made a silent promise to make sure than Van Gogh knew how much he cared.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Bleu nuit nacré</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw graphic depiction of suicidal attempt/suicidal and depressive thoughts<br/>Joan and Vincent french bff and bi/gay solidarity that's all</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Logically, Van Gogh thought the hardest part of it all would be to... actually<em> do it</em> and have the courage - or the cowardice - to take the”easy way out”. He couldn’t be more wrong.</p><p>Dying had been surprisingly peaceful, albeit a little painful at first, paint wasn’t really enjoyable to drink and turpentine, it- well, it burnt him all the way down, and it burnt him in a way that couldn’t be explained with words, only with sensations. Then, he had fallen into a dreamless slumber, thinking: <em>this is it. </em>There was no one his mind could really go to before he let himself fall into the mist. His foster mom? No. He was invisible to her. Theo? No, because he had no Theo. No brother in whose arms he would quietly die in. Maybe a certain someone that had just humiliated him in front of everyone. But without really wanting to, the image that Van Gogh turned to was softer. It was of Gandhi in art class, focused on his own painting. It was nice. His brain had decided to see him last in a very good light that made his chest warm up inside where he felt incredibly cold before. No, this wasn’t hard at all.</p><p>In fact the hardest part was waking up to see that he had failed that, too. And to top it off, waking up in Gandhi’s arms.</p><p>Hell had a funny way of slamming its doors on his face.</p><p>At least they had decided not to pump his stomach, as he had probably vomited most of the turpentine and paint, but his throat was going to hurt like a motherfucker for a good week.</p><p>Thankfully, Joan had been the one at his side during the whole ambulance ordeal, and the stay at the hospital. He couldn’t bear to think about Gandhi being there when he would have to answer the nurses’ questions about his suicidal thoughts. Of course, he didn’t feel exactly fine having Joan there with him when she probably had way more importants things to do, even if she assured him she hadn’t. She was probably lying to try and make him feel better.</p><p>Joan had left eventually, after promising him that he could come talk to her any time he wanted, even giving him her number:</p><p>“Screw the hotline. It was a bad idea to have Gandhi do it anyway, he was drunk as fuck two minutes in.” Joan had whispered to herself, seated on the hospital bed next to him.</p><p>She looked as if she felt guilt, actual guilt. But Van Gogh had never thought of this as being her fault, or even Gandhi’s, in fact. The only way he found of telling her this, as his throat was too hurt to actually speak, was to grip her arm and softly press it. She turned to him, a soft smile on her lips.</p><p>“I want you to call me whenever you feel the need to actually talk to someone about anything. Anything. We’re friends, and I care about you.”</p><p>A friend. It actually brought Van Gogh to tears, just to hear it from her, to hear it for real. He had had friends before, but not for long periods of time, and no one ever admitted it to him or to others, as if being his friend was extra shameful. But Joan didn’t look as if she was ashamed of it, not a bit.</p><p>“I’m- I’m sorry, he sniffled, his voice raw, hiding his face in his hands.”</p><p>Honestly, he didn’t really know why he was apologizing, for crying in front of her, for robbing her of her time or for trying to end it all. Maybe all of them.</p><p>Joan’s embrace was warm, soft, just like her, and she hugged him a long time, only humming to shush him. She cared. How strange. Usually, he had meltdowns when he was isolated, but this felt nice, to be held, to be comforted by a friend.</p><p>“But... I didn’t take my...”</p><p>Joan handed him something from her pocket. His phone.</p><p>“Gandhi gave it to me.”</p><p>Upon hearing his name, Van Gogh went stiff. He still felt angry with Gandhi. A perhaps a bit selfish part of him thought that he would have succeeded were it not for Gandhi, and another part of him was grateful that he had stepped in at the right time. This was all very confusing. But most of all, he didn’t want to hear about him. It brought him back to the feeling of treason he had felt piercing his heart when Gandhi had made fun of him.</p><p>“Thanks, Joan.”</p><p>“No problem, Vincent.”</p><p>With Joan gone, Van Gogh finally looked at its phone. The only notifications it showed him were messages from Gandhi. Gosh, him again. He didn’t bother to look at what that prick had to say, and instead turned in bed to stare at the closed window to his left.</p><p>Of course, there was no way he could try and jump from there - he didn’t really want to - it was locked anyway and everything in the psych ward had been prepared so that he couldn’t find a way to harm himself.</p><p>From the window, he could see the sky, and the stars, but not the moon. It filled him with a sense of everlasting calm, to see this peculiar shade of blue, a nightly blue where stars just seemed to find their place, somehow. Van Gogh was torn between wanting to plunge himself into that sky and the need to paint it. Becoming one with it or owning it. None of these two options were possible, though, but it was okay, because he was so, so tired.</p><p>Soon enough, he was asleep. His dream was one he had often dreamt. Walking in wheatfields. Crows in the distance, calling out to him, asking him to <em>join them in the church in Auvers</em>. The sky, heavy and low as a lid, which moved different shades of blue together, turning like the waters of a coursing river. And Theo’s voice, far away...</p><p>He always woke up around the part where Theo talked to him, but could never remember the words he had said. It was french anyways, and he didn’t understand enough french to translate it. But for some reason, he always woke up remembering clear as day what he had answered him:</p><p>
  <em>Théo, la tristesse durera toujours.</em>
</p><p>He always woke up to pillows wet from spilled tears during this dream.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They discharged him from the psych ward as soon as they could, which meant in the early hours of the morning after, with recommendations of psychological help blah blah blah, Van Gogh had just shrugged it off and pretended as if he was going to seek help, which, obviously, was never going to happen.</p><p>As soon as he was out, he took his phone and entered Joan’s number in his contacts. There were more messages from Gandhi, and this time, he actually read them.</p><p> </p><p>(02:48)</p><p><strong><b>Gandhi:</b></strong>  <em>u feelin any better?</em></p><p>
  <em>hope Joan wasn’t annoying</em>
</p><p>(06:57)</p><p>
  <em>so u comin back to school or nah?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>got u covered btw</em>
</p><p>
  <em>said you had too much to drink and the idiots believed me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>u there V??</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I’m here.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And yes, I’m coming back. Actually I’m pretty</em>
</p><p>
  <em> sure I can see your bald head from the cafeteria.</em>
</p><p> </p><p><strong><b>Gandhi:</b></strong>  <em>shut up don’t forget that this bald head saved ur ass yesterday</em></p><p>
  <em>wait</em>
</p><p>
  <em>too far?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Just get to class, dickhead. We’ll talk after.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Truth be told, Van Gogh absolutely did not want to talk about it. Gandhi probably didn’t either, or he <em>thought</em> he did. If it were up to Van Gogh, everything would be swept under the rug and forgotten, nothing to talk about here, Gandhi hadn’t witnessed a thing and Van Gogh was fine. Right? Right.</p><p>Then why couldn’t he help but shiver all the way to the cafeteria where Gandhi had decided to crash instead of actually going to class?</p><p>Too many people. Too much noise. Too much <em>everything</em>.</p><p>Van Gogh got to the table where he used to sit to eat in silence, next to a friend group that probably didn’t even notice him most of the time. His hands were shaking like crazy, and he barely heard Gandhi calling him.</p><p>He was a mess. In fact, it had begun as soon as he had gotten to the classroom. He had tried to avoid looks, but he felt as if EVERYONE was looking at him. Everyone knew, <em>everyone knew what a depressed piece of shit he was-</em></p><p>Gandhi’s hand on his shoulder startled him back to reality - or at least, to the present, as he felt everything in a much too ‘real’ way. It anchored him.</p><p>“Let’s ditch ‘em” Gandhi offered.</p><p>And suddenly they were outside, though Van Gogh didn’t recall walking out of the cafeteria. He must have zoned out and let Gandhi guide him. Van Gogh didn’t know if it was the fresh air or simply being able to breathe again, even if he was still a bit panting, but he found himself silently thanking Gandhi.</p><p>“We can skip the next period together, if you want.”</p><p>“Skip? Are you serious, Gandhi? You already skip class this morning, you can’t-”</p><p>“I knew you’d say this, you art nerd, but this isn’t about me skipping, it’s about <em>you</em> taking care of yourself.”</p><p>Oh, so this was about <em>that</em>, huh.</p><p>“Don’t roll your eyes at me, it’s true! You’re gonna tell me you didn’t spend the first period shaking like a leaf?”</p><p><em>Touché. </em>He put his hands in his pockets to hide the nervous tremor, but it was too late, Gandhi had noticed it.</p><p>“Well, I guess skipping <em>one </em>period couldn’t hurt.”</p><p>“Now we’re talking, V!” Gandhi erupted, smiling so brightly it could have blinded Van Gogh.</p><p>“Don’t think this is gonna become a habit or something.” He smiled, too, as he said that. It had been quite a long time since the last time he had smiled, and to his own surprise, it was seeing Gandhi smile that had him smiling too.</p><p> </p><p>They were eating fries in the grass of the park when Gandhi broke the silence:</p><p>“So... You’re depressed, huh?”</p><p>“Goddamnit, Gandhi.” Van Gogh half-sighed, half-exclaimed.</p><p>“Okay okay, jeez, no need to get so defensive, V. I’m just trying to-”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it.”</p><p>Gandhi didn’t say anything for a short moment, which didn’t particularly scream ‘Gandhi’ to Van Gogh. The guy literally couldn’t shut up for more than thirty seconds.</p><p>“Ok, ok, I get it. We won’t talk about it.”</p><p>Then, Van Gogh saw him getting a can of Monster energy from his backpack.</p><p>“Are you seriously gonna drink that?”</p><p>“Sure, why not?”</p><p>“I’m pretty sure you have undiagnosed ADHD, man, and this isn’t going to help. At all.”</p><p>Talking to a wall would be easier. Gandhi was already chugging it as if his life depended on it.</p><p>“I drink it when I’m nervous.”</p><p>“You’re... nervous, right now?”</p><p>Van Gogh felt himself gripping his own hands, a reflex of anxiety creeping in. He never would have thought that his presence was such a burden to Gandhi-</p><p>“Nah, not really. I don’t know? I thought I was, but that’s just me not being comfortable in silence and my thoughts are going craaaazy- but I guess what I mean is- I like it when you’re here with me and I don’t wanna fuck things up- Sorry, I’m talking too much.”</p><p>“It’s okay, my... My thoughts are going crazy most of the time, too. That’s what thoughts do, I suppose.”</p><p>“Man, can you believe people that stand silence?” Gandhi laughed, and it sounded kind of watery, drawing Van Gogh to examine him. No trace of crying. He sounded like he was, though.</p><p>“If you ever feel stressed out with me, you can tell me, you know”, Van gogh whispered. He couldn’t believe he was the one saying this. If there was someone in this school who was always on the verge of a breakdown, it was him.</p><p>“I know. And you too, you can tell me when you’re stressed out.”</p><p>“Deal.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Vert herbe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gandhi had a lot of favourite hobbies - and he switched between them a lot - but his favourite one of all times had to be smoking weed. It made sleeping so easy afterwards, and he didn’t even puke like when he tried to do the same thing with alcohol. He was usually the only one of the group to roll and smoke, Abe was a pussy and JFK... well.. JFK was JFK.</p><p>He hadn’t smoked it all to himself, truth be told, he did feel kinda bad having to enjoy this little baby alone. But they were all losers here. He just had to convince the biggest loser of all.</p><p>He sneaked out as quietly as he could, and ran all the way to the dorms’ building. He felt just like a feral animal, hopping from one bush to another to not get caught by a janitor or worse, a teacher. Then again, who would just hang out around the building after midnight? Him, obviously. He felt high and still so energetic, somehow. Maybe he was developing a habit, or worse, an addiction. He hoped not. Weed was literally the only thing that calmed him right now.</p><p>Gandhi waited for a student to get out of the way before running to the door. He tried to get it open, to no avail. The dorms had been locked up so as no one could leave them in the state they had been left in after the party. How practical.</p><p>Gandhi gave up almost immediately, not wanting to break into the building and be taken for a burglar. Plus he had weed in his pockets, so it was a big no. The prospect of losing his manna he had so desperately sought was far scarier in his mind than getting arrested for having some.</p><p>Gandhi found Van Gogh’s window quite easily: after all, he knew his floor and his room’s number, so he basically knew where to look for a redhead probably dressed in blue.</p><p>He was still up, which didn’t particularly come as a surprise. Gandhi could see his back as he was still seated at his desk, probably drawing.</p><p>The first idea that came to him was to throw rocks at Van Gogh’s window, but as he got a good view of it, he thought: <em>this is gonna give him major stalker vibes and he’s gonna panick</em>. No rocks throwing for tonight, then.</p><p>He opted for the safe way to do things: by text.</p><p> </p><p>(01:24)</p><p>
  <em>yo van gnome come on down</em>
</p><p>
  <em>im outside</em>
</p><p>
  <em>pick up your phoooooone</em>
</p><p>(01:26)</p><p>
  <em>hey man i know you’re awake</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Van Gnome</b></strong> : <em>And what if I wasn’t?</em></p><p>
  <em>No i mean i KNOW you are</em>
</p><p>
  <em>bc i can see u</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Van Gnome</b></strong> : <em>Very funny.</em></p><p>(01:29)</p><p>
  <em>im not joking. check your window</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There was a pause, during which Gandhi received no messages, but then he saw Van Gogh at his window, staring at him with wide open eyes as he finally saw him standing in the bushes.</p><p> </p><p>(01:31)</p><p><strong><b>Van Gnome </b></strong>: <em>WHAT TH HELL GANDH I</em></p><p>
  <em> You CREEP</em>
</p><p>
  <em> You scared the shit out of me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>just hurry up i felt something brush</em>
</p><p>
  <em>up against my fuckin leg</em>
</p><p>
  <em>it might have been a rat</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Van Gogh</b></strong> : <em>You’re the rat</em></p><p>
  <em>no u</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>For a moment, Gandhi thought Van Gogh was just going to shut the curtain and ignore him. He very well could have; at least he looked ready to do it. But then after some time Gandhi saw the main door open and Van Gogh in its frame, looking small in his big jacket, walking stiffly to him, as if he was terrified to be seen sneaking out too.</p><p>“What do you want, Gandhi? God, what’s that smell?!”</p><p>Van Gogh had a funny way of pronouncing his name. It was as if he was sneering at him, as if he was constantly annoyed and mad at him. Like an angry little gremlin. It always gave Gandhi the urge to laugh, but he controlled himself every time. Van Gogh wouldn’t take it well if he saw Gandhi laughing at him.</p><p>“I have something to show you...”</p><p>Van Gogh sighed, eyeing the dorms, before shaking his head. Gandhi took that as a yes, and took his hand in his. He thought he saw the ghost of a blush creeping in on Van Gogh’s cheeks, but then again, it was dark and he could have imagined it, high as he was.</p><p>“HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUTSIDE AT THIS HOUR?” A voice shouted from the building.</p><p>They both jumped, startled. And yet Gandhi didn’t let go of Van Gogh’s hand. On the contrary, he pressed it even harder and began running blindly, dragging him behind him. There was adrenaline pulsing in his blood, Van Gogh was gonna kill him for sure, after this whole affair was over.</p><p>They ran for a long time, until they reached the park. Gandhi finally slowed down, allowing him and Vincent to breathe again.</p><p>“I think we’re clear now, Van.”</p><p>Underneath the luminescence of a street light, Van Gogh’s face was perfectly visible. His cheeks were a little flushed, his eyes were soft. He was... Handsome? Gandhi couldn’t believe that this word of all words was the first one to come to his mind. <em>That’s not gay</em>, he immediately thought. <em>It’s perfectly normal to think a guy is handsome.</em> Van Gogh only glanced at him with a little smirk for a smile, still huffing from his sprint. Then, his glance fell on their hands, still in each other, with their fingers intertwined. It made both of them blush, and this time, Gandhi couldn’t doubt it. He felt it burning his own cheeks, and Van Gogh quickly averted his eyes, hiding away his own face. They both let go of the other’s hand at the same time.</p><p>“So... Do you do that often?” He said, still avoiding to meet his eyes.</p><p>“What,” <em><strike>Hold hands with guys?</strike></em> “run from angry janitors?” Gandhi asked, incredulous.</p><p>“No- Well, yes, that too but I meant peeping on people. Do you do that to...”</p><p>Van Gogh marked a pause, winced a little and then:</p><p>“Girls?”</p><p>“Nope, first time. But running from people who wanna kill me, yes, all the time.”</p><p>“Somehow, that doesn’t even surprise me.” Van Gogh whispered with his usual smirk.</p><p>They crashed on a bench not too far from that same street light. Gandhi needed to see if he wanted to roll correctly. Van Gogh looked a little lost, he had followed him there, waiting for what would happen next. The moment he saw Gandhi take the weed out of his pockets, he exclaimed:</p><p>“Wha- Are you kidding me? You made me sneak out just so you could smoke?”</p><p>“No, V. I made you sneak out so that <em>we </em>could smoke.”</p><p>“I’m not touching that.” He made a face of disgust.</p><p>“You’re an artist hoe, don’t tell me you never smoked weed.”</p><p>“Well-” His voice went out, and he coughed. “I <em>have</em> tried it, but that’s beside the point. My throat is still fucked, Gandhi.”</p><p><em>Shit</em>. He had completely forgotten about that.</p><p>All color instantly left Gandhi’s face, as he melted into excuses, which was quite unlike him. But the image of Van Gogh drinking yellow paint had printed itself behind his lids for what seemed to be forever.</p><p>“God I’m so sorry V, I didn’t- I can’t believe that I forgot that you-”</p><p>“Hey hey hey... Don’t worry, Gandhi. You can always smoke, and I’ll watch you.”</p><p>“Aren’t you gonna be bored to death?”</p><p>“Nah, I’ll manage.” Another little smirk.</p><p>Silence. Then:</p><p>“I lied, by the way. I never tried weed.” Van Gogh admitted in a hushed voice.</p><p>“But you smoke?”</p><p>“Yeah. So?”</p><p>“Same thing, really. Only one of them is illegal.” Gandhi reasoned.</p><p>He rolled the blunt and got his lighter out.</p><p>“Wait.” He said, and raised his glance at Van Gogh, who was observing him with genuine curiosity. He didn’t even feign to look away.</p><p>“You smoke?! How did I not know that?”</p><p>“Because no one does.” Van Gogh shrugged. “I only smoke when I’m alone.”</p><p>“Why?” Gandhi couldn’t understand that logic. He was the one that had made him sneak out to smoke with him in the first place. He cracked his lighter, and the flame danced over it, burnt the tip of his blunt, and Van Gogh’s stare lingered on it. He seemed hypnotized. The moment was frozen in time, as if eternity had captured the flame of his lighter.</p><p>He imagined Van Gogh smoking. The cigarette between his slim, delicate fingers, turning as he was thinking on what shade to add to the painting he was on. The smoke escaping his lips. The slight tremor in his hand, the way his hand would go from his mouth to the ashtray. All of this mental image had way more grace to it than Gandhi would ever have when he smoked. He smoked like a stoner would; Van Gogh probably smoked like an artist would.</p><p>“I don’t know. I worry people will look at me if I smoke.” As he said that, his hand flew at his bandage in what Gandhi could only describe as a reflex of self-defense.</p><p>His gesture said everything. Van Gogh was scared of people seeing his ear- or rather, his lack of ear. It was absurd, no one would see it when he was smoking...</p><p>But Gandhi recalled an incident from last year. Someone had snatched Van Gogh’s bandage, just teared it violently and everyone in the hall had seen it, even Gandhi. Seen the scar. Some had gasped. Some had laughed. Gandhi hadn’t. Even if he was an asshole sometimes, he wasn’t <em>that</em> type of asshole.</p><p>He wondered,<em> when Van Gogh says I’m an asshole, does he mean it like </em>that<em> type of asshole?</em> Damn, that was way too much talk about ass right now. Gandhi tried to think about another thing, but he still saw him running down the hall with his hand covering up his scar, tears streaming down his face.</p><p>“Next time.”, he assured him, “Next time, we’ll smoke together.”</p><p>Van Gogh timidly nodded.</p><p>They stayed there, sitting on the bench next to each other, one of them smoking weed and the other doing nothing in particular, just casting quick glances at him from times to times, probably regretting not to have brought his sketchbook.</p><p>“Why were you still up?” Gandhi suddenly asked. “When I came to get you, you weren’t in bed.”</p><p>Van Gogh looked at him take a hit on his blunt, looked at the smoke rising in the fresh air of the night, and quietly let out:</p><p>“I have insomnia. And it recently got worse.”</p><p>“So, you don’t sleep?”</p><p>“I do, sometimes, but only three hours per night. Other times, I’ll just spend the time wide awake, just painting because it’s the only thing that I seem to be able to do...”</p><p>Gandhi shivered; that sounded awful. He didn’t have insomnia himself, so he could only imagine what that must have been like for Van Gogh. Sure, he had trouble falling asleep, but he always ended up getting at least some sleep.</p><p>“Does painting... help?”</p><p>Van Gogh looked at him, surprise displayed on his face. He looked utterly stunned at the idea that Gandhi would be genuinely concerned enough to ask him personal questions of the type.</p><p>“It does. But sometimes it just... Makes it worse? Because I can’t seem to do it right...”</p><p>“I get it, Van. For me, it’s the same thing with weed, I think. It calms my nerves when I can’t sleep, but then again, sometimes it only makes me nauseous.”</p><p>A pause. Then he said:</p><p>“I got diagnosed with ADHD, by the way. ADD and ADHD, so you were right, I guess.”</p><p>“Oh.” Van Gogh quietly let out. ”How does that make you feel?”</p><p>“Kinda numb. It’s like, I already knew I had it, or rather I knew something was wrong with me, but it does feel better to put a name on it.</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong with you. That’s just the way it is, and you don't have to feel ashamed of it.”</p><p>It felt...nice, to hear that. Especially from Van Gogh. They fell together in a silence that didn’t feel forced, or awkward. They just listened to the noises of the night, of others students having a blast somewhere far, while they just stayed there. It was new, but it didn’t last long. As always, Gandhi felt that silence was unbearable after some time, and it made him say regrettable things.</p><p>"I should have asked Abe for more. If he hadn't that Cleo..." He grumbled, mostly talking to himself.</p><p>He threw the rest of his splift and stepped on it with his shoe to extinguish the last sparkle, and Van Gogh opened his mouth to say:</p><p>“Why me?”</p><p>Gandhi turned to meet his gaze. Van Gogh looked stern, somber even, frighteningly so.</p><p>“You could have hung out with Abe, or JFK, or Cleo, or Joan... Why me? We never really hang out. We began after I tried to-”</p><p>He cut short his sentence, his gaze falling at his feet, empty, melancholic. He seemed already far away, deeply plunged in his own thoughts. But then, his eyes on Gandhi’s were a real electric shock.</p><p>“Tell me, Gandhi, do you pity me? Or is it because you’re afraid I’m gonna try to kill myself again?!” He lashed out suddenly. “You don’t have to watch me because Joan told you to.”</p><p>Gandhi was, yet again, taken aback. This time, more rightfully so, to his opinion.</p><p>“What are you talking about? Joan never told me to watch you!”</p><p>“Maybe you’re being so nice to me because you feel guilty, don’t you? You don’t even truly like me, you’re just here to make sure that I don’t-”</p><p>“You know what? Maybe it is about that! I didn’t particularly liked it when I saw you half-dead, mind you!”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>“Well then why didn’t you just leave me there to die if you didn’t like it?!” Van Gogh exclaimed, his voice coming out raw and hurt.</p><p>“Because I care about you!”</p><p>“You don’t.” Van Gogh spat, standing from the bench. “I’m pretty sure you did this only because you’re feeling guilty.”</p><p>“I was trying to be a better friend, but I guess if you don’t want me to be, I won’t bother you anymore.” Gandhi replied coldly.</p><p>They stood in front of each other in silence, and then Van Gogh left first, walking fast, hands curled into fists. His chest still heaving from the fight, Gandhi stared at him as he disappeared into the night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it's MY french lockdown and i'll spend it however i want &gt;:(<br/>no but really, i'm currently in quarantine with my Covid-positive parents, so i'm just tryna write my anxiety away :)<br/>lots of dialogue in this one, i love writing dialogue so much please Excuse me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Rouge vermillon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>catch me self-projecting so hard onto Van Gogh that you'll be calling me Vincent in seconds</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Théo, la tristesse durera toujours.</em>
</p><p>Van Gogh woke up more cranky and tired than he had been when he had dozed off in the late hours of the night. It was a Satursday, so he had the whole day to himself, which he would probably spend in his bed, trying to push his anxiety down. His days passed in a blur when he felt this low.</p><p>The dream had left flashes of yellow and blue in his brain and a sour taste in his mouth. And still, this sentence in his head...</p><p>He kicked his blanket and forced himself up to go take his meds. His brushes were drying on the counter. He stared at them, then took them.</p><p>When he felt bad about himself, he used to paint a self-portrait and put all of his feelings of loathing in it. It was an idea of his therapist.</p><p>It didn’t make it all disappear, but he was often left exhausted by it and didn’t turn to unhealthy coping mechanisms afterwards. He used to destroy the painting the day after, because he couldn’t bear to even think about it.</p><p>He applied a first shade of crimson red on the canvas.</p><p>But then, he eyed his phone. There was someone he knew he could talk to.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>(10:13)</b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hey Joan?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>(10:15)</b>
  </strong>
</p><p><strong><b>Joan:</b></strong> <em>yes?</em></p><p>
  <em>You alright Vinnie?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, no, but it’s ok</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I think I fucked up</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Joan:</b></strong> <em>What happened?</em></p><p>
  <em>Gandhi and I had a fight last night</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A bad one</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t think he’s ever gonna talk to me again</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Joan:</b></strong> <em>why would he do that?</em></p><p>
  <em>I told him horrible things</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That he was hanging out with me just so I didn’t kill myself</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Things like that</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Joan:</b></strong> <em>You were probably feeling hurt and anxious</em></p><p>
  <em> Do u still think that?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>idk</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m kinda confused about how he feels about me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Like he will make fun of me and then act so kind????</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Joan:</b></strong> <em>H</em><em>e may be confused too</em></p><p>
  <em>That doesn’t make it ok</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sometimes people do stupid shit because they’re</em>
</p><p>
  <em>afraid of what others may think of ‘em, yknow?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, I know</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I just wish he’d be... straight forward with me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Like, either i hate you vincent or i like you vincent kinda straight</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>Joan: </b>
  </strong>
  <em>oh honey</em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t think gandhi’s entirely str8</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>(10:17)</b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah..</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>(10:18)</b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>What</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>Joan: </b>
  </strong>
  <em>what</em>
</p><p>
  <em> I mean... have you seen him</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Especially when he’s around u</em>
</p><p>
  <em>.... What are you implying?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>Joan:</b>
  </strong>
  <em> I’m subtly implying that Gandhi has the hots for u, ya dummy</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fancies u</em>
</p><p>
  <em> A big ol’ crush</em>
</p><p>
  <em>OK OK I GOT IT</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You... really think so?</em>
</p><p><strong><b>Joan:</b></strong> <em>I know so</em></p><p>
  <em> I know what it’s like to have a crush</em>
</p><p>
  <em>On Abe?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>Joan: </b>
  </strong>
  <em>.... ig i’m not that discrete myself</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh you are, don’t worry</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gandhi told me</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>Joan:</b>
  </strong>
  <em> Ah.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> BACK TO THE LITTLE SHIT</em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s acting weird cos he likes LIKES u.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> And if I’m wrong, which i never am,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then he likes u, at least.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t hate u or feel indifferent about u Vinnie</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t</em>
</p><p>
  <em>know what to think about that</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Or do</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>Joan:</b>
  </strong>
  <em> Well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> You can talk to him</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tell him that you’re tired of him just going back and forth</em>
</p><p>
  <em> And that you need him to stop treating u like garbage</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you Joan.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t know what I’d do without you &lt;3</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>Joan: </b>
  </strong>
  <em>&lt;3</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Van Gogh stared at the crimson red stain on the canvas that stood in front of him. It looked like a blood stain, or a heart pumping on white. In his eyes, it needed to be softer, now. The feelings that had tormented him earlier had softened, and so would the stain on the canvas. He made it into vermilion by adding some specks of white. And after some minutes of silence except for the noise of the brush against the paper, the whole canvas was covered in layers of vermilion and orange.</p><p>He painted without thinking about it; he didn’t control the hand nor the brush, it was as if it moved on its own. Feelings were what controled the brush, really. He only moved in a transe-like dance between him and the canvas. He didn’t even feel like smoking, not once. He just... didin’t think about it.</p><p>Soon he realized he was painting Gandhi.</p><p>Van Gogh stopped, took a step back and finally looked at what he was painting, as if he’d been blind the whole time. He appeared out of the vermilion, just a trace of him, just a draft really, just an outline, just a feeling being born.</p><p>He sat down and lit himself a cigarette, smoking as he stared at Gandhi’s unfinished portrait.</p><p> </p><p>Gandhi was nervous. Van Gogh knew what it was like to be nervous, so he had recognized it in Gandhi as soon as he had entered the cafe. He was fidgety - well, even more than the usual - and couldn’t stop tapping his fingers on the table, casting glances in all directions, avoiding Van Gogh’s look and blurting out random facts. For once, he was the one who remained - mostly - calm. He was uncomfortable, sure, he never felt 100% comfortable with lots of people around. But rather calm. He theorized this was due to the conversation he had had with Joan hours ago.</p><p>Now he couldn’t stop looking at Gandhi and wondering: <em>does he LIKE like me? And why does it make me feel so weird?</em></p><p>“We can go elsewhere, if you want.” <em>He couldn’t believe he was the one saying this, days after his suicide attempt.</em></p><p>“No, it’s okay here. It’s fine. I’m fine.”</p><p>“Gandhi. Look at me.”</p><p>He finally met his glance, reluctantly at first. Then he seemed to breathe again.</p><p>“I just wanted to apologize. I don’t want to stress you out.”</p><p>These words seemed to ease him out completely, and he sagged on his chair, a bit theatrically so.</p><p>“Man, I should be the one apologizing. I haven’t even said ‘sorry’ about that night.”</p><p>He didn’t even need to explicit to Van Gogh what night he was talking about, he had understood it immediately.</p><p>“So... I’m sorry. So sorry. I was such a jerk, I-”</p><p>It felt strangely good to hear Gandhi express true remorse about that night. Well, he had surely expressed it in other ways before, but hearing it, plain and simple, felt as good as Joan telling him she was his friend.</p><p>“You were a jerk”, Van Gogh agreed. “But thanks, Gandhi. And you know, I- I didn’t try to do it because of you. I was uh- planning to do it before.”</p><p>Shit, that was even worse. Now he felt anxious.</p><p>“I mean it wasn’t your fault, and I’m sorry you had to see that.”</p><p>“Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t come sooner”, Gandhi only added, slamming his hands on the table.</p><p>“And <em>I </em>am sorry that I said you hung out with me because I was a burden to you”, Van Gogh retorted, mirroring Gandhi.</p><p>“<em>I</em> am sorry I didn’t say sorry sooner!”</p><p>“I’m sorry!!” They eventually exclaimed at the same time, stared at each other, and erupted in laughter. God, they were both idiots, sometimes. Van Gogh didn’t even pay attention to the surprised looks from literally everyone in the cafe . All that he could see was Gandhi laughing wholeheartedly in front of him, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt that way, too.</p><p>“I was actually scared shitless that you wouldn’t want to see me again”, Gandhi admitted in a sigh of relief.</p><p>“Gandhi, I’m the one who told you to come”, Van Gogh told him with a smirk. “Friends have fights all the time, and they talk it out after.”</p><p>The look full of hope that Gandhi gave him warmed Van Gogh’s heart. He looked at him with the same intensity that when he had looked at Joan when she had told him they were friends.</p><p>“Well, we should celebrate this joyful reunion”, Gandhi observed. “What say you about going to my place?”</p><p>“Your place stinks, Gandhi. Last time I came there, there were old socks in your sink.”</p><p>Gandhi shook his head, looking ready as hell to explain his whole thought process that had lead to the situation.</p><p>“I already told you, V. I had to wear them to the exam because they are my special socks!! They were dirty as hell so I tried to clean them and forgot them when I left because I was late...”</p><p>“Yeah... Makes sense. Let’s go to mine instead, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Gandhi entered the room first. The last time he had entered it... Well, Van Gogh didn’t particularly want to think about it. His room wasn’t big, but the walls were covered in sketches and paintings. Colors, everywhere.</p><p>“Is that... Me?”, Gandhi asked with a shaky voice.</p><p>Van Gogh felt his heart stop in his chest when he connected the dots and understood that Gandhi had stumbled upon the painting that Van Gogh had done of him this very morning. He jumped on his canvas, covering it with his whole body. But it was no use : his flushed face betrayed his shame and Gandhi had had the time to recognize himself.</p><p>“YOU HAVEN’T SEEN A THING”, he whispered through gritted teeth.</p><p>“Aw c’mon man, it’s not a painting about dicks, there’s no shame in showing it to your old pal Gandhi!”</p><p>Van Gogh’s fingers were clawed onto his painting like an old man would claw onto his economies. This was intimate, of course, something he had done in the privacy of his own confused feelings of the morning. It said so many things in silence, it asked so many questions... Van Gogh saw it, but what if Gandhi saw it too? Didn’t share his feelings... Didn’t like LIKE Van Gogh? Their friendship would be over, this time. And for good. Van Gogh was not ready to lose that.</p><p>But it was only a draft of a painting, after all, and Gandhi saw it for what it was: only a draft of a painting of him on vermilion red splattered on the canvas. Nothing suspicious there. <em>Just a bro painting his fellow bro, </em>as Gandhi would say.</p><p>Yet right now something very unusual was happening: Gandhi was silent. And this for more than thirty seconds. He was staring at the canvas in front of him and couldn’t say a word.</p><p>“Do you... Like it?”</p><p>“Are you kidding me?! It’s the first time anyone has ever painted me... I love it.” Gandhi turned to get a look of every painting and every sketch that covered the walls and exclaimed: “You’re gifted, Vincent! I think your clone father would be very proud of you!”</p><p>Van Gogh could hardly contain the pride in his chest, the smile on his lips and the tears that were forming in his eyes. He strived to hear these words from someone, anyone, and out of all the people on Earth, it was Gandhi saying them to him right now.</p><p>“Thanks, that really means-</p><p>“Though to be honest my natural handsomeness kinda lost itself in translation...”</p><p>“Don’t make me regret it, asshole”, Van Gogh scoffed, going to sit on the sofa.</p><p>“I’m just messing with you, V.”</p><p>He was leaning against the small balcony in a relaxed manner that made Van Gogh want to draw him again in that frame, his shape in front of the window and the splift he was trying so desperately to light.</p><p>“Y’know what I’m thinking about?”</p><p>What Gandhi was thinking about remained, most of the time, a great mystery.</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“My goldfish, when I was living with Cleo. Well, our goldfish. His name was Fish, because I hadn’t thought of a name for him before he died, like two hours after we got him back home. I’m just thinking about him, about what it would be if I had a goldfish right now. If you could own an animal, what would it be?”</p><p>Van Gogh sunk into the sofa, thinking. Then:</p><p>“Probably a cat.”</p><p>“NO, MAN! Your cat would eat my goldfish!!”</p><p>“Good riddance!” Van Gogh laughed. “One has to survive, anyway.”</p><p>“You monster”, Gandhi snarled, blowing smoke out of his nose like only a dragon would. “I knew you were a cat person.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“Cat persons are annoying. You’re annoying. Boom. Cat person right there.”</p><p>“Please don’t tell me you’re a dog person...”</p><p>“Missed. I’m a goldfish person.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Noir, châtain et blanc</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cats. Cats everywhere. Little balls of fur with claws and teeth like daggers. Gandhi was currently asking himself how it had possibily come to this, this timezone of him standing in a pet shelter with Van Gogh, a pet shelter full of cats, might he add.</p><p>It wasn’t that he hated cats, he just didn’t see what everyone had for them. They slept all day, they didn’t do anything, and Gandhi was positive you couldn’t even play with them. Well, you couldn’t exactly play with goldfishes either, and Gandhi had always wanted a dog, which he’d been denied because he’d <em>“tire the poor thing out”</em>. Gandhi had decided dogs weren’t for him anyways. Animals, in general. Cats, even less.</p><p> The felines looked at him with their terrifying bright eyes, turning in their cages, and Gandhi thought: <em>at least a goldfish would be less threatening</em>. But if it mattered to Van Gogh, well then it mattered to him too.</p><p>Van Gogh, on the other hand, was having a blast. Looking like a little boy who’d stepped in a candystore, he roamed the corridors of the shelter, scurrying from cage to cage. He was silent but it was obvious that internally, he was probably screaming.</p><p>Gandhi observed him and stayed unusually silent, too. The only one speaking was the old lady of the shelter; her bubbly voice covered the cats’ mewlings. Gandhi didn’t really pay attention to whatever she was talking about: he was focused on Van Gogh and Van Gogh only.</p><p>The redhead had stopped in front of a cage. There was a tricolor cat there, with brown, black and white fur. Unlike the others it wasn’t sleeping or turning in its cage, but perfectly still. The moment was out of time, unreal: the cat was staring at Van Gogh as if he already knew him, it was almost unnerving. And Van Gogh was looking at him in the same fashion.</p><p>It was like two souls that knew each other a long time ago were meeting again for the first time in centuries.</p><p>When Gandhi got closer, he understood why Van Gogh had stopped in front of this cat in particular. Its left ear was clipped.</p><p>“I see you met our new resident!” The old woman waddled in their direction. “This is a stray Calico cat, we got him one month ago.”</p><p>“It’s a he?” Gandhi asked.</p><p>“Yes, male Calico cats are very rare... But this one's a he.”</p><p>“What happened to his ear?” Van Gogh said in a low, almost shy voice; it didn’t even sound like a question.</p><p>“Oh, that’s what happens to altered feral cats. It makes it easy for caretakers to identify them as neutered. He also got a nasty scar there, but that’s probably from fighting other feral cats.”</p><p>For some time, Van Gogh didn’t answer: he seemed shaken, on the verge of tears. He probably saw himself in this scarred, puny animal who displayed so many colours on his fur.</p><p>“It’s him”, he finally said, or whispered, really. “Theo.”</p><p> </p><p>Theo’s adaptation to Van Gogh’s apartment went along smoothly. According to the old lady from the shelter, it would take some time before the cat would warm up to Van Gogh or to his place. And yet, Theo already let Van Gogh run his hand through his soft fur without trying to escape. It was as if he’d been his cat for years. Gandhi was stupefied.</p><p>After turning a bit in his apartment, sharing confused glances around him, Theo had established his nap place on Van Gogh’s bed almost immediately. They were like old friends. It was astonishing.</p><p>The same couldn’t be said for Gandhi. Theo didn’t seem to like Gandhi at all, and Gandhi stared at the cat as if he feared for his life.</p><p>Why in the world had he encouraged Van Gogh to adopt a demon?!</p><p>He sat as far away from the cat as possible, something that Van Gogh didn’t even notice as he sat down beside him on the sofa. He hadn’t spoken a single word since he had decided on his cat’s name, had been elsewhere throughout this whole ordeal.</p><p>“Thank you for coming with me, Gandhi. I mean it.”</p><p>“No biggie, V. I’m glad you found the right one.”</p><p>Van Gogh shook his head, smiling.</p><p>“He’s the one who found me, I think. I always wanted to have a cat, you know? To have a pet I could give unconditional love to, and who could return it to me, who could see past all my flaws and just, love me.”</p><p>“I always wanted a dog.” Gandhi admitted, scratching the fabric of his jeans. “I used to annoy my first foster parents with it - well, I used to annoy them for everything - but they would always say no. Then, when I left... I came across Cleo one day, who’d stayed with them, and she had a beautiful labrador. I guess it was a strange coincidence that it was so easy for her to have a dog once I was gone.”</p><p>“That’s fucked up.”</p><p><em>Yes.</em> Gandhi thought. <em>Yes, that’s fucked up.</em></p><p>“Since then, I just decided that dogs weren’t for me.”</p><p>“Dogs are overrated anyway. Why want one when you can have a cat?”, Van Gogh tried to cheer him up, and his hand fell on Gandhi’s knee.</p><p>The touch sent Gandhi to another world, one of sensations building in his chest, his mouth dry and his heart pumping and his head spinning and he didn’t understand a single one of them. Van Gogh’s soft hand was touching his leg and it was so, so close to his own hand still scratching oh so nervously his jeans.</p><p>It seemed to be quite new for Van Gogh too to have this kind of touch between them, and he awkwardly let go of Gandhi’s knee. He wasn’t the type to always have physical contact with others, that much Gandhi knew. But he, on the other hand, needed to touch, have physical affirmation, he couldn’t talk to someone without feeling the need to touch their shoulder at some point. For Van Gogh to touch him, it meant a whole other new level of trust between them.</p><p>“Are you telling me that you want to split the ownership of your cat?”</p><p>“I’m telling you that you can always pet him as if he were your own pet. You can even pretend he’s a dog, if you want to.”</p><p>Yeah, that was going to be very hard for Gandhi. The more he looked at Theo, the more he felt the cat was going to hiss and launch at him with claws out, ready to rip him to shreds.</p><p>“Yeah, thanks to me he’ll start barking in no time!” He laughed, still a bit stiff as he looked at the feline.</p><p>“Knew you were a dog person all along.”</p><p> </p><p>Gandhi spent the evening at Van Gogh’s place, which had become somewhat of a regular occurence between them. They’d get fast food or occasionally cook simple meals and watch some Netflix. Gandhi would always joke on making his escape from the dorms, but in truth it was kind of an escape as he had to go through the back door and run all the way back to his own dorm building.</p><p>This time, he had even managed to forget Theo’s existence for some time before the cat decided he had to make his presence known by jumping onto the sofa, startling him. Then, Theo did the unthinkable: he jumped from the sofa to Gandhi’s knees.</p><p>He almost jumped, but Theo’s claws sinking into his thighs prevented him from doing such a thing. The bastard stared at him while doing so, as if to say: <em>“See? You can’t do anything or say anything. I have full power over you.”</em></p><p>Gandhi turned to Van Gogh for help, but all he received was:</p><p>“Oh, look! Theo likes you!”</p><p>
  <em>How cute.</em>
</p><p>Theo purred cunningly and left his knees to go settle on Van Gogh’s without ever getting his claws out: this definitely convinced him that this cat absolutely hated him.</p><p>When the episode came to an end, Gandhi looked at his phone, realizing it was already pretty late.</p><p>“I should probably go...”</p><p>“Stay.”</p><p>Gandhi expected everything but this. Van Gogh had never offered him to stay the night: he usually just yawned him goodbye and Gandhi would go back to his lonely little room plunged in darkness and crash onto his bed.</p><p>It didn’t really bother to sleep here, probably on the sofa, but it kinda did now that there was a cat in the room, looking at him with bright demon-like eyes. <em>What if he woke up to find him at the other end of the sofa, sitting like a gargoil, watching him? Or worse, what if Theo came to sit on his chest while he slept and just clawed his face? Or what if-</em></p><p>“Just for tonight. Please.” The way Van Gogh said it, like a little boy pleading, took him by surprise. “You could sleep on the bed, and I-”</p><p>“NO.” <em>There was no way in hell he’d sleep with the demon. </em>“I’m taking the sofa. You sleep in your bed.”</p><p>Van Gogh lent him one of his old t-shirts for a pyjama, and set up a makeshift bed on his old sofa. It was a white t-shirt that had obviously served as canvas: Van Gogh had painted little sunflowers on it. Gandhi was amazed by this. Moreover, it smelled just like him. Vanilla and coffee. It smelled like mornings.</p><p>“Here, I think you should sleep okay. Are you sure you don’t want the bed?”</p><p>A look at the little ball of brown-black-white fur on the bed, and Gandhi vigorously shook his head.</p><p>“Noooo thanks. I’ll be fine, don’t worry Vinny.”</p><p>When the lights were out, there was silence, only interrupted by the sounds of Gandhi turning to find the best position to sleep. It was weird, but also natural at the same time, to spend the night in Van Gogh’s room. They’d been spending more and more time together, especially at school or more precisely between classes, and saw more of each other as the days passed. So it shouldn’t have come as a suprise that Van Gogh would invite to stay over.</p><p>Still, Van Gogh was a very private person, so it felt strange to be invited into his room so often, to see more of him as he listened to him talk... But good. It always felt strange, but good.</p><p>“This is my first sleepover.” Van Gogh was the one to speak first, for once. “I never had one before.”</p><p>Between the lines, Gandhi understood: “No one’s ever invited me to a sleepover before, neither did I ever throw one at my place.”</p><p>“Sleepovers sucked, man.”Gandhi replied. “Yours is cool, though.”</p><p>“Thanks, Gandhi. Goodnight.”</p><p>"Goodnight, Van Gogh."</p><p>"And goodnight Theo."</p><p>Gandhi let out an exasperated sigh that was stifled in his pillow.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Theo comes from an idea of @sketchyloucifer on instagram! go give him some love pls</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to be continued ;)<br/>if you liked this so far, leave a comment, i'm a bitch who feeds off validation from others and there's no shame in admitting it<br/>my tumblr: insomniz<br/>my instagram: lespipous</p></blockquote></div></div>
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